The Interview
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: An experienced secretary leads a young British expatriate through his paces. [21st century office AU. Threeshot. No strong allusions to any pairing. Complete]
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Here's another experiment I've been toying around with. In the universe of real world alternate universes, they are either very well done or absolute crap. Of course, no author made any progress without going somewhere unfamiliar and trying things they have never done before. This is an early 21st century workplace AU. The adventure really begins in part two. Let me know if you think this is working. No pairings in particular, just a lot of season two -ish era friendship hijinks.

As always, thanks to BonesBird for her beta services. Review for sexy secretary Hoshi and good karma. More of her, hippie!Phlox, intern!Liz, VP!T'Pol, Travis, and Trip next time.

**The Interview: Part One of Three**

With only a few moments left until the stroke of high noon, a yellow cab meandered its way up the street towards its destination. A front had only recently rolled in from the ocean, leaving the metro thoroughly waterlogged. Presently, the rain fell from the sky in great precipitous sheets, rendering the already cramped avenue nearly inaccessible. _The driver was really going too slowly for his own benefit_, the passenger groused, _if he really wants a gratuity._

The handsome British expatriate had only arrived in San Francisco the evening before with only two small valises filled with his necessaries. The flight had left him somewhat rejuvenated; filled with a boyish sense of adventure, he had immediately inquired into leasing a flat in the area. His demands had been simplistic and relatively few. He only asked for a fair and judicious price—indeed, if his father had taught him anything, it was to not settle for anything less than exceptional—relatively quiet neighbors, and a location within walking distance of the local libraries and transit stations.

His search had been fruitful, as he was scheduled to move into a central high rise the following weekend. Now, clutching and turning a pamphlet over in his hands, the only concern he had was being late for his first official job interview.

The brochure was modestly colored, sparingly decorated, with only the words of the company adorning the front cover. The reputation of Enterprise Innovations was renowned even across the pond; when he had told his mother of his plans to appeal for a position in their ranks, she had been skeptical that his admission would be as obstacle free as he promised. His father had been appalled that his decision had not been to continue the family legacy of service in the Royal Navy. Only his sister, Madeline, a successful veterinary student in her own right, had been supportive.

And now, armed with only a portfolio of what he had deemed to be the most promising results of his graduate research and a plucky sort of confidence that threatened to shatter at any moment, Malcolm Stuart Reed hailed for the cabbie to stop at the street corner.

He complied, only grunting over his intentionally meager fare that had been passed over the passenger's side seat. As soon as Malcolm stepped out onto the sidewalk, he was taken aback at the force of the gust that rollicked around his feet and had turned the busy pedestrian corridor into a veritable wind tunnel of sorts. In Britain, it had often rained in the afternoon, but not typically with so much force. Holding his briefcase above his head, he elected to make a mad dash for his destination.

By the time he reached the exterior of the massive glassed in structure, he was soaked to the skin. Upon trying the door handle, he found that it was locked. Within, he noted the drab interior of the lobby, woefully empty of any sort of person. Malcolm had done enough research to know that the headquarters of Enterprise Innovations was spread out in a great saucer shape, wherein cubicles and conference rooms filled the labyrinthine space. To the far side of the building facing the bay, two massive rectangular shapes jutted out, much more long than they were wide. These were reserved for experimentation, where the lucky few entrepreneurs were given living wages to hone their skills and make a product that might be sold as a prototype to larger conglomerates. While he was wary of the lack of job permanence, he knew that this might be one of the few places where he might get to tinker in his own space free of the interference of others. And that, after all he had endured at his previous place of employment, was what he truly needed.

If he could even get through the front door, that is.

Just as Malcolm was contemplating shouldering the door to force his way in, a small screen emerged from an adjacent panel. The company's logo—the shape of their building set against a background of stars—flickered. From the microphone on the rim of the screen, a computerized female voice prompted, "Identification, please."

He was taken aback. Fumbling for composure, Malcolm managed to stammer out, "Well, I…I'm not employed here as of _yet_, but I—"

A series of aggravated beeps sounded, and lights began to flash. For a brief moment, he considered running back to the safety of his hotel, but then a decidedly human face flashed before him.

She was young, he concluded, in her mid-twenties, an impossibly beautiful woman of Asiatic origin with high cheekbones and luminous eyes. Her hair was pinned back in an elaborate ponytail, and she wore a headset draped around one delicate ear. Offering him an exasperated grimace, the woman said, "I apologize. We're making a few upgrades to our security system, and at best it can be a little..._tetchy_."

Immediately, logistics and various formulas began to swim in Malcolm's mind. He could see how such a volatile computer program could lead to trouble down the line. He made a mental note to mention this in his interview, should the topic arise.

"What did you say your name was?" She interrupted his short-lived reverie.

"I didn't. But it's Reed. Malcolm Reed. I have an interview with a—" Here he paused, glancing down at the pamphlet to make sure he got the correct name. "Jonathan Archer?"

She furrowed her brows, turning to check something on the slender MacBook that was plugged in behind her. Just as Malcolm had just about reached the limit of his patience, telling her to open the door before he was swept away in the torrential downpour of the rainstorm, the secretary pushed a button on her desktop.

The latch unlocked with a snap.

"Down the corridor at the far end of the lobby, please. Turn left, then right, then left again. Follow the signs to the antechamber. Thank you for coming, Mr. Reed."

She barely had time to finish her sentence before he burst into the lobby, leaving wet footprints in his wake. His heavy leather shoes squelched loudly and his dress shirt was now thoroughly plastered to his abdomen. As Malcolm ran his fingers through his damp hair, he thought,_ so much for making a good first impression_.

He found the correct hallway with ease, but as soon as he followed it for some distance he came upon a crossroads of sorts, with several corridors stretching out before him in the shape of a fan. Which way was he supposed to go, again?

A handful of employees passed him, their heads down, making their way to their destinations without the slightest inclination of the will to socialize. Many were dressed in a similar manner, conservatively, in either charcoal or black suit sets. Suddenly he felt out of place, albeit marginally, in his all brown ensemble. Several wore pins on their lapels of various colors—he immediately spotted red, yellow, and green—and he couldn't help but wonder what their purpose was.

"Young man!"

He turned instantly at the voice, which somehow managed to sound both gruff and approachable at the same time. A gentleman—in the loosest interpretation of the word—had harkened to him from an open door some ways down one of the halls.

Not knowing what else to do, he approached, and soon noticed that this man stood out even worse than he did. Malcolm could see now that he wore a garish paisley shirt and Bermuda shorts, his thick, curly hair only tamed with the limited effort of what suspiciously looked like a woman's headband. As he continued to speak, he noted a pronounced accent of eastern European origin.

"I need your assistance," he beckoned him through the doorway, and against his better judgment, Malcolm followed.

_(to be continued)_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This wound up being much longer than anticipated, but there were just so many subtle nuances and hints to get around to. Quick reminder that nearly everyone is OOC just a little bit down the spectrum; this is an AU, after all. I'll post the final entry as soon as I can. Thank you for your blessings and kind words!

**The Interview, Part Two of Three**

Malcolm wasn't sure what he had expected an office in the main annex of Enterprise Innovations to look like, but it certainly wasn't _this_.

First of all, it was much larger than expected, a great cavernous space filled with shelving and cabinets of an ambiguous gray color. He wasn't exactly sure where it ended, either, for several islands jutted out into the center of the room, fairly overflowing with various flora and fauna of unidentifiable origin. Around the perimeter and shoved into every available space between plant specimens were a variety of animal cages. From every direction, a bevy of squawks, bleating, and whistles were heard. For a gentleman who prided himself in often maintaining a decorous silence about himself, it was very nearly overwhelming.

As if his sticky shirt and souring leather shoes weren't torment enough, the sheer humidity of the room had bowled Malcolm over almost instantly. There wasn't a foul stench about the place, however, which indicated some degree of pride in the maintenance of this domain. For whatever immodest assumptions he had made about this mysterious man in the previous few seconds, he had to acknowledge that.

The bohemian fellow almost immediately returned to him work, bowing over a set of calculations for so long that Malcolm feared that he had forgotten about his guest. It was in that moment a woman stepped out from behind a climbing ivy, wringing her hands into a towel and calling to her companion.

"You _didn't_—"

He interrupted her swiftly, rather enthusiastically than mean-spirited. "Just a moment, please, Elizabeth, I'm thinking."

The lady in question sighed and used the rag to dab at her clammy brow. Malcolm noticed that although she wore the same plain dusky trousers that he had seen the other employees wear, she was undressed to the blouse, and even that was rolled up far past her elbows.

Several beats passed before she seemed to gather her wits about her once again, exclaiming, "Oh my goodness, where are my manners!" With a flick of the wrist, the towel was tossed to the side and she was shaking Malcolm's hand eagerly. "Welcome. I'm Elizabeth Cutler."

"Malcolm Reed. Charmed," he replied, striving his mightiest to offer an engaging smile.

"I suppose you're new. The Doctor has a way with sniffing them out," her remark was dismissive, yet understanding.

_This washed up hippie throwback practiced medicine?_

He began to speak at once, his voice muffled as nearly his entire portly upper body ventured into a cabinet to retrieve an item. "A few inches short of six feet, with relatively poor eyesight. Experiences frequent insomnia, probably a carrier for a genetic indicator of male pattern baldness."

It took Malcolm a few moments to realize he had been referring to him. To his knowledge, this was mostly correct. Agape, he inquired, "How did you—"

"Intuition. Your aura is very telling, indeed," he emerged, clutching an antique medicine bottle stopped up with cotton balls. "A perfect candidate for my Revival Serum, don't you think, Elizabeth?"

She had turned her back, relatively disinterested in the proceedings. She offered a dismissive wave of her hand as she tended to a member of the aviary.

Malcolm accepted the amber bottle, tipping it back and forth and noticing how the rich cerulean fluid caught the light. "What's in this, Doctor…?"

"Phlox."

"_Phlox_? Like the garden plant?"

Over his shoulder, his assistant only shrugged apologetically and wiggled her fingers, as if urging him to say more.

"So that's your first name, I assume. But if I am to address you, I must _surely_ know your last name."

"It's Phlox. _Just_ Phlox," the doctor replied, a bit confused. Nevertheless, he pointed at the vial in Malcolm's hands, a ragged, overgrown fingernail on display. "It's not much, truly. Extracts of chamomile and lavender—for stress that accompanies the occasional existential crisis—and a bit of a rare South American salamander."

Well, if this maverick physician had been good enough to secure a position at the company, his methods must have some merit. Only meaning to take a whiff of the liquid, Malcolm hoisted it to his lips.

"Yes, the exceedingly rare Atacama spotted tail dune salamander. Essence of the male."

Had the lovely assistant not been at his elbow in that instant, he surely would have dropped the flask.

"I'm sure Mr. Reed has somewhere to be, Doctor, and we wouldn't want to keep him. I'll help him to his destination and be back in a moment," she graciously provided him with an exit.

Phlox treated him to the widest, most blithe grin he had ever bore witness to, gleefully oblivious of his social miscue. Before Malcolm knew it, he was being dragged backwards into the hallway.

Following a minute or so spent in mostly awkward silence, Elizabeth prompted, "Mr. Archer's office, correct?"

"Why, yes," he replied, and the two began to walk together.

"You must forgive Phlox. He's really a brilliant mind, but the seventies weren't kind to him, as they say," she began wryly, dodging into another corridor at such a speed that Malcolm almost ran into the wall.

"If you don't mind me asking, what is his specialty?"

"Natural supplements. He almost locked in a production contract with GNC last year, but backed out of it at the last moment."

This surprised Reed. He had always viewed work as a necessary capitalist evil. He looked forward to the time when he might retire in splendor and repose, devoting all of his free time to tinkering with his inventions. Furrowing his brow, he asked, "Whatever for?"

"I was confused as well. But he's distrustful of big business, as he should be. Chain stores have a tendency to take kindly developers for a ride. He's a quiet man, prefers to keep to himself and his menagerie, but he has his morals. That's just one of the many things I admire about him." She smiled then, and a bit of something indecipherable flashed in her eyes. "But seeing as Mr. Archer is all about results, he sent out a bulletin to the outlying franchises, asking for an intern that could keep him more oriented on his goals."

"And that's when you came in," he guessed.

"That's right," by this time, they had reached a set of heavy oaken double doors. Elizabeth pressed the buzzer, then turned back to her companion. "I've worked here for almost a year. Moving out from the Midwest was one of the best decisions I ever made."

"Sato here," a familiar voice, tinny with distance, came out of the intercom before Malcolm could respond.

"Hey, Hoshi. It's me. I've brought a certain Mr. Reed to see you," from her open body language and amused smirk, it was clear that the two women were good friends.

"Don't tell me that Phlox got a hold of him. I thought that my instructions on how to get up here were pretty clear," she replied, her voice tinged with irritation.

Malcolm's lips drew into a tight grimace. Did she not realize that he was standing _right there?_

"You underestimate the dear doctor. Now let us in, if you please, so I can get back to his laboratory before he ropes in another poor victim-er, _patient_."

There was a series of metallic clicks, followed by a sound that accompanied someone pushing back their desk chair on a hardwood floor. "I'll be right there."

Once the line went dead, Elizabeth turned back to the Brit, crossing her arms and studying him as if he was an unfortunate butterfly pinned on a corkboard. Finally, just as soon as he was about to begin to grow uncomfortable under her scrutiny, she said, "Good luck with your interview."

"Thank you. It's really a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Cutler."

She giggled, an unexpected melodious sound. "Call me Liz."

And with a final wave and a turn of the corner, she was gone.

At that moment, the doorjamb Malcolm had been leaning on lurched backward, nearly causing catastrophe as he stumbled in a rather ungainly manner into the slim form of his preceptor.

Her perfume was sharply sweet, with notes of gardenia and jasmine. Recovering swiftly, he brought himself upright and offered his hand for a brisk shake.

"I apologize for the confusion, but this dreadful weather really has set me off balance," noticing that she hadn't accepted the proffered nicety and that his horrendous attempt at small talk was failing miserably, he continued, "I really must look a fright!"

Hoshi raised an eyebrow. He wasn't wrong. What with his drying suit jacket sticking out at odd angles and his dress shirt plastered to his torso, the fellow before her looked thoroughly unprepared to face her boss. But his regard was earnest and there was a faint guise of desperation in his eyes, the desperation to impress and be accepted, that she just couldn't find it within herself to be rude to him.

"Come with me, I'll fix you up."

For a woman in five inch stilettos, Sato sure could walk fast. Tripping over himself to keep up with her, Malcolm had negligible time to examine his surroundings. But, as it often happens when one is in a hurry, one thing in particular caught his eye.

"The HMS _Enterprise_?" The banner was several feet tall and wide and sported an artistic representation of one of the most famed ships in the history of the British Royal Navy.

"Of course," Hoshi called over her shoulder, not even stopping to entertain his curiosity. "Our CEO has always harbored a particular interest in the entrepreneurial spirit. That ship, and the very many named just like her, serve as our namesake," her diction was so precise that it almost sounded like she was reciting lines from a rehearsed script.

Malcolm smiled to himself. As a child and young adult, he had pored over reference books on the subject of British military history, memorizing every statistic of armaments and weaponry that he could find. It seemed that the past had a way of following someone no matter how far they strayed from their origins.

The pair finally arrived in a large atrium cloaked in shadow. The only source of illumination in the room appeared to be a rather large skylight, which was darkened by the expansive cloud cover far above. Hoshi stepped to the side and placed her hand on a control panel, which instantly raised previously unseen incandescent lights to seventy five percent. The change was so gradual that he barely noticed it. Now, upon further study, he saw panels tucked away in the folds of the delicately wrought ceiling.

The woman interrupted his thoughts, saying, "This is one of the best things to come out of our environmental engineering department. You see, this building is completely solar powered." At once her hands were at his collar, divesting him of his briefcase and suit jacket before he could protest.

Mystified, he said, "Every weather report I've watched since I've arrived has said that it's been storming for several days."

"So it has," Hoshi returned with a luxuriant towel and a moist toilette. "More sophisticated circuitry means lesser demands on our power grid and extension of resources. Don't ask me anything else about that, though. It's not my specialty."

"So what_ is_?" He followed her further into the room as she returned to her desk. In profile, he saw her slip off her high heeled shoes and proceed to knead her toes into the rug beneath her feet.

"What do you think?" Her tone was interested rather than annoyed. In retrospect, it had been a daft question. The sticky notes and manila envelopes were enough to indicate that her work was secretarial in nature.

"I'll let you in on a secret, though," she beckoned him over to her side, where she entered a series of commands into her laptop.

"_Welcome to Enterprise Innovations_," a pleasant, feminine voice stated, before repeating the statement over again in several languages.

When almost a full minute had passed and the program had not yet finished its run through of its linguistic repertoire, Malcolm said a bit reverently, "That's incredible." To tell the truth, he wasn't sure exactly what he was looking at.

Knowing that she had a captive audience, Hoshi began to speak in an animated manner. "Imagine, if you will, a trip abroad. But you don't bring your travel dictionary—not because you forgot it—but because you don't _need_ it. The Universal Translator, once it's out of its prototype stage, will repeat whatever you say in the language and diction style of your choice. It could revolutionize language courses at the secondary and collegiate level as we know it. Now, instead of focusing on minor insignificant differences in grammar, students could become more immersed in culture and politics of the nation they're studying."

Malcolm cut off her infomercial-like pitch to interject, "That sounds marvelous, Miss Sato! You should really be given a research grant yourself!"

"Oh, I wish," she mumbled sheepishly. "You see, Mr. Reed, I'm only an undergraduate in communications and speech pathology. But everyone has to start somewhere, and that's why I left Japan for America."

He was in awe of the young woman's initiative and this sudden revelation, for she spoke flawless standard English without a trace of an accent. Her skills in imitation must be unparalleled.

Before he could further congratulate her on her achievements, one of the many doors leading out of the central atrium opened, emitting a rather strange character indeed.

This newcomer was clad in gray workpants and a thermal sweatshirt, both of which were stained with industrial grease and God knew what else. A maroon bandanna had been tied around his brow, most likely to keep the sweat out of his eyes. As he approached Ms. Sato's desk on a collision course, Malcolm noticed that he left dusty footprints in his wake.

"Any packages today, Hosh?" His accent was lilting and unmistakably American Southern.

He would have thought that the secretary would have been dismayed by the less than professional address, but she only rolled her eyes and responded, "Not yet, Trip."

"Goddamn it, how do those big honchos at Hyundai 'spect us to get the next shipment out by the end of the month if they don't even bother to send our supplies and specs 'til the week before?" He clapped his palms onto her desktop out of frustration.

She didn't even flinch. "I'm not sure," she intoned in a poor attempt at sympathy. But Malcolm could sense that there was indeed friendship between these two, something more substantial that had cultivated over time.

It was then that this man, Trip, noticed that someone else was in the room with them. Lifting his chin at him, he demanded, "Who's _this_ guy?"

"He's a new applicant. Malcolm Reed, this is Charles Tucker, the head of our mechanical engineering department."

The two shook hands, the southerner cranking his elbow vigorously as he scrutinized him. "Yessir, that's my name, and buildin' a bigger, better, more efficient car engine is the game. You can call me Trip, though. Ev'ryone else does."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tucker," Malcolm answered with a forced smile.

The Southerner whistled appreciatively. "That accent, though. Don't tell me you're from 'cross the pond?"

"He is, indeed," Hoshi said absentmindedly, having returned to her clerical work. "In his file, it says that he's of a military family."

Malcolm grimaced. It was clear that this particular company was not above background investigation.

"Military, eh? Well, then, it's a small world! There's been Tuckers in both world wars, not to mention the civil and revolutionary wars! Why, our ancestors coulda met on a backwoods corn field a few hundred years ago!" He was clearly entertained by the prospects.

"That's doubtful. We Reeds typically pledge allegiance to the Royal Navy."

Trip shifted from foot to foot, trying to hide his discomfort. This new hire was no fun, a veritable wet blanket with no sense of humor whatsoever.

That would have to change.

"Get your nasty feet off this floor before I have to chase you out. Every time you come up here, I have to mop up the entire room," Hoshi groused.

"Your wish is my command," he responded, bowing deeply in an exaggerated manner. He turned to leave, but not before getting a final comment in. "Say, Mal—I hope you don't mind if I call you that—you're pretty damn regal for a guy so young. Like a fine military officer. I think I might refer to you as such. The Lieutenant." And, seeing as that rolled pleasantly off his tongue, he repeated it before he disappeared into the open doorway from whence he came. "_Loo-tenant_."

Instantly, Hoshi was on her feet, passing a dry mop over her coworker's footprints. She appeared amused, even titillated as she hid her giggles behind her palm. "Don't mind Trip. He's a good guy, if a bit eccentric."

Malcolm was starting to think that everyone at Enterprise Innovations was.

Another adjacent door swung open, this time almost striking Sato in the face had she not stepped aside at the last second. A dark-skinned man, sporting a pristine navy suit set with a neon yellow tie, wore a distressed look on his face.

"Are we a few feet off again, Mr. Mayweather?" Hoshi questioned lightly.

"More than a few feet. According to my calculations, I was supposed to have arrived in the break room next door," he produced a tablet from his suit jacket pocket and proceeded to jab at it in exasperation. Without even acknowledging the other individual in the room, her turned and retreated down the corridor once again.

Hoshi returned to her desk, but not before Malcolm could ask, "Just who was that?"

She held up a finger, the other hand firmly gripped around the phone receiver. From some distance away, perhaps on the other side of the wall, it rang.

"Mr. Archer, your twelve-thirty is here," she listened for a moment, nodding and making small noises in the back of her throat. Abruptly, she hung up.

"He'll be ready for you in ten minutes. Apparently he is in the middle of a_ rather important_ conference call," from her sardonic tone, it was clear that this was most likely not the case.

"That's fine, I can wait." By now, Malcolm's clothing had dried out, leaving him only with stiff shoes and damp hair.

"The man who you saw was Travis Mayweather, navigational specialist. He's one breakthrough away from perfecting the most accurate GPS on the planet."

He nodded. There was definitely need for that. As a child, his aunt had attempted to use a primitive version of such a device to guide them to a holiday destination. However, one wrong turn supplied by the computer had caused them to nearly drive into a bog.

A buzzer sounded from her desktop, and Hoshi reached out to answer it. Without any prompting whatsoever, she quickly called out, "Come in, T'Pol!"

As soon as her fingers left the control panel, she slipped back into her heels and began to tidy up her desk. She tossed a somewhat concerned glance over her shoulder at Malcolm, but probably decided that fixing him would be a lost cause.

He wagered to inquire into the nature of this sudden burst of activity. The name she had used was exotic, untraceable in origin. He couldn't help but wonder what nationality it belonged to.

"You might want to make yourself scarce. A hurricane's about to whip through this office." She made tracks towards the door, as best as she could while limited by her pencil skirt, several files under her arm.

"I don't understand. Who is this _T'Pol_?"

"The vice president," Hoshi replied gravely, and not too soon before the doors to the antechamber swung open with force.

_(to be continued)_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Here's the (not very) highly anticipated final portion of my threeshot. Molding T'Pol and Jonathan to my vision of this AU was somewhat difficult. Keen readers will notice strong allusions to a SassCaptains relationship, because we can never have enough. Until next time.

**The Interview, Part Three**

Malcolm scarcely had the opportunity to react to Hoshi's words before the aforementioned hurricane swept in with a gust and the entrance of an impossibly beautiful hijabi woman.

"Miss Sato, I am concerned for the productivity of my employees," T'Pol began to speak immediately and in blatant disregard for her secretary's half-hearted attempt at a greeting. With a flick of the wrist, she relieved the Asian woman of the files she had been carrying and began to leaf through them.

Hoshi immediately turned and began to follow the vice president of Enterprise Innovations further into the room, careful to maintain a respectful distance. In contrast to how she had behaved around that peculiar Mr. Tucker, it was clear that there was no love lost between these two.

"I can't imagine why, ma'am," Hoshi said, "everyone seems to be in high spirits."

T'Pol stopped in her tracks, nearly causing a collision. Now that she had neared in proximity, Malcolm could see that she was gifted with a striking set of hazel eyes, the kind that could pin down movement from a kilometer away. Her eyebrows, too, were delicately uplifted, a fact she was keen to display as she raised one at Hoshi in a convincing display of incredulity.

"Whether they are enjoying themselves is none of my concern," she closed the folder she had been holding with a snap, and absently passed it into Hoshi's hands. "I sent a memorandum to Dr. Hudson in the department of botany and it took her nearly _one hour_ to respond."

Hoshi appeared to be struggling mightily not to roll her eyes or indulge in a similar act of insubordination. "Perhaps she was busy with an experiment."

"That is irrelevant. I trust that every member of the faculty could take a moment out of their busy schedules to entertain my inquiries," in exasperation, she used two fingers to massage her temples, causing her mauve hijab to shift backwards on her scalp. The silken fabric revealed several strands of dusky hair before she thought to pull it back into position.

"You're right, of course, madam," over the shoulder of her boss's turned back, Hoshi made a grotesque face that was so extreme that it nearly caused Malcolm to lose his composure.

The Muslim woman zeroed in on his movements like a hawk, her sour expression indicating nothing but disdain. She studied him from top to bottom, pausing every few seconds to click her tongue. For a fleeting moment, Malcolm felt as if he was before his childhood etiquette instructor and about to be chastised for not rolling up the legs of his trousers the required two centimeters.

Ah, but Miss Harrow, that old crone, at least she had not been opposed to doling out praise whenever she believed that someone deserved it. Malcolm had never considered himself to be particularly tuned in to people's auras, but this T'Pol certainly emanated dissatisfaction in the highest degree.

Nevertheless, a person isn't born callous or deaf to the plights of their peers; in fact, if the idle gossip of his aunts were to be believed, his unsympathetic father really had been a compassionate person, once upon a time. To the untrained eye, Malcolm himself wouldn't have seemed like the type of gentleman to be under the employ of a person just a tad more honorable than a common criminal, but just a short three months ago, he was. His urge to make an honest living had drove him to San Francisco, and he would be damned if one bad apple would cause him to regress.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss T'Pol," he began carefully, for he did not know her surname and did not desire to offend her.

Her expression changed when he extended a hand in her direction, and it seemed to Malcolm that she was fairly trembling with tension. It was more than likely to do with her anger at her unreachable employees, but he would not wager to assume anything about her at this point.

She cleared her throat, and finally shifted into a more readable gesture with her arms crossed over her chest. "And you are?"

"Malcolm Reed. I'll be interviewing for an open position today," he glanced down at his open palm, as if encouraging her to extend the olive branch of pacifism, but she did not return the gesture.

"How remarkable," she replied softly, before turning back to face Hoshi. "Please route all incoming calls from Professor Soval at the university to the laboratory. I'll be taking leave from my office for the rest of the afternoon."

Hoshi nodded briskly, producing a pad of paper out of seemingly nowhere and scribbling down a few notes to herself. "Of course."

She began to exit the way she had come in, but stopped halfway to the door, her cerulean gown billeting around her ankles. After some time of palpable silence, she said, "And if _any_ of my family should call—"

"Don't worry," Hoshi assured her, "you won't be available."

Her expression, which had been fairly unreadable until now, shifted into one of unrepressed gratitude. T'Pol opened her mouth to speak, perhaps to thank the other woman for looking out for her, but instantly closed it and swept out of the room without so much as a parting word.

Once the vice president was gone, Hoshi relaxed visibly, exhaling loudly. As Malcolm watched, she slipped her high heels off once more and returned to her desk.

"She's very…" Malcolm stopped himself from asserting his opinion, for he did not want to make a bad impression so early in the day.

"_Intense_?" Hoshi finished his sentence, grinning drolly. At his nod, she continued, "I'm sure you realized by now that T'Pol is from a different part of the world, the Muslim Caucasus region, to be more specific. From what I could gather, getting her community to allow her to attend school was an uphill battle. She's had to fight for every promotion and every bit of respect she receives. Don't get me wrong, I respect her, but I sure as hell don't envy her position."

"You would much rather be here, in the company of your translation matrices and conjugation charts," Malcolm said, gesturing to her monitor.

"Ah, be careful, Mr. Reed," Hoshi warned, although from the sparkle in her eye he could discern that her admonishment was far from serious, "assumptions can only lead you down a dangerous path."

The conversation naturally drifted off as the secretary picked up the receiver of her desk handset and struck a few numbers with force. The phone rang once again, somewhere behind the wall, followed by an audible groan and someone picking up the other end rather aggressively.

"Your twelve-thirty is becoming a one," her eyes darted in Malcolm's direction. She pressed the button that would broadcast the response over the speakers.

Only a few yards away, Jonathan Archer sighed rather dramatically, his voice sounding tinny and rather far away. "Miss Sato, I'm very busy today…"

"Flirting with the chief operations officer of Columbia Technologies Limited does not count as _busy_, sir," she fired back sharply, leaving her companion taken aback with her boldness. Malcolm's former boss, that dastardly criminal, would certainly not have stood for such a brash address.

For a moment it seemed that the president really would become angry, for the air between them became fairly charged with electricity. Finally, he laughed from deep in his belly and said simply, "Alright, then. Go ahead and send him in."

Hoshi hung up, turned, and bestowed upon Malcolm a kind of brilliant smile that he was already beginning to associate with the young woman. "Best of luck, Mr. Reed."

Then, before she could think twice, the Japanese woman stood and began to straighten his tie.

The Brit decided at that moment to do something rather out of character for him, for he felt that this lady was a kindred spirit. Observing her lithe fingers at work over his collar, he requested, "Please, just call me Malcolm. We will be seeing a lot of each other, it seems."

She stops, her hands dropping to her sides, and considers this. "You're right. And to you I'm Hoshi. Not _Miss Sato_, not _ma'am_—"

"Just Hoshi," he finished, retrieving his suit coat from the rack behind her desk and slipping it on. Deciding that he was now suitably dressed, he picked up his briefcase and gave his new friend a fleeting glance as he stood before a second set of heavy oaken doors.

"Go on," she reassured him, "you'll do just fine."

Taking a deep breath and acting on a sudden burst of confidence, Malcolm thrust the whole of his weight against the frame and entered the domain of the illustrious man at the helm of Enterprise Innovations.

The first thing that stood out to him was a multitude of blinking LED screens that covered the opposite wall, displaying countless options and pending notifications. Even though the level of light in the room was set low, the flashing keys gave the chamber what was almost a luster for midday. Other than that, the décor was classic, with an L shaped desk taking up most of the space. What with the piles of paper littering every available surface and some areas of the floor, it was not difficult to see that this office belonged to a somewhat disorganized person.

Ignoring how the initial appearance warred with his martial sensibilities, Malcolm set his gaze upon the man he was soon to be working for.

Jonathan Archer was a man in his early to mid- forties, with distinct patrician features and laugh lines that rimmed his eyes. As he stood, sporting a tight, closed-mouth smile, the applicant saw that he was dressed rather casually, in a pair of slacks and a buttoned up shirt.

"So you're the notorious Malcolm Reed," he began, offering his hand to shake. Reed accepted the invitation with vigor in hopes of showing enthusiasm when his gut was actually churning with dread.

_Notorious_? Just how much research into his past had they done?

"And you must be Jonathan Archer. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," suddenly, his mouth tasted like pennies.

"Sit down, make yourself comfortable," he gestured to an overstuffed leather easy chair in the opposite corner, with Malcolm collapsed into heavily.

Once the two men were settled, Jonathan said, "I trust that you're enjoying San Francisco so far."

"Well, sir, to tell you the truth—"

"Cut it with the _sir_. We try to be friendly to one another here. Either Mr. Archer or Jonathan is fine," absently, he reached for a framed picture on the edge of his desk, which appeared to be a vacation photo from an exotic locale, where he had been accompanied by a rather attractive Latina. She wore a loose fitting crimson dress, and her head was thrown backwards in laughter as her companion bargained with whoever was behind the camera. Turning the image away from his guest, he laced his fingers behind his head and leaned into them with satisfaction.

"Alright. Mr. Archer, then," Malcolm wasn't typically one to have a nervous disposition, but the potential that his former life had followed him across an ocean was enticing his heart into nearly beating in double time. "I can't tell you how splendid it is to finally make your acquaintance."

At the confused look he was dealt, Malcolm sustained, "Your reputation precedes you."

Jonathan laughed once again, in incredulity more than anything else. "Really, it's my employees that make all of the advancements. I only represent the company on the global stage and handle the press events. But I do pride myself in giving my staff a sense of direction. Tell me, Mr. Reed, what is it that you plan on accomplishing here?"

Malcolm was relieved that this was becoming an interview of the more traditional variety. He unsnapped the clasp on his briefcase and began to rummage for the pertinent file. "Well, just this past spring, I received my master's degree in condensed matter, atomic, and laser physics from—"

"I'm glad, Mr. Reed, but that wasn't the question," he cut in abruptly, taking out a cloth and setting to polishing a medallion at the edge of his desk.

"Truth be told, I'm interested in creating functional laser and particle weapons for military use," he confessed, and it was true. All he needed was a multi-million dollar research grant and the lack of deadlines to do it.

"Interesting," Mr. Archer said, whistling lowly to himself. "You would think that you'd be wrestling with some sort of moral dilemma as a result of that. Imagine if the average man on the street packed enough firepower to vaporize the next person that looked at him cross-eyed." He stood and strolled over to a shelf full of trophies, picking one up and brushing off the placard's surface.

"My inventions would be for professional use only, and as for their proposed illegal acquisition, that would be the responsibility of a country's legislature." After spending what seemed like an eternity making excuses for his former employer's actions, Malcolm was not willing to take the blame for certain members of society that were ethically impaired. Even though he loathed to admit it, he carried the same moral pragmatism as his father, even after all this time apart from him.

"Mr. Reed, did you know that I was a professional water polo player before going into business?" His tone was quiet, contemplative, as he held up one of his awards.

He hadn't known. At a second glance, the man appeared to be rather fit, with the body type expected from a retired athlete. Shaking his head, he acquiesced, "I did not."

"I was the goalkeeper the year that Stanford won the American championships," Jonathan recollected, "I graduated the following year with a degree in finance, but I knew it wasn't for me."

Malcolm sat quietly, listening to the older man recount the glory days. This information could prove to be valuable down the line, but he wondered how exactly this related to his interview.

"My father was a lawyer, one of the best on the western seaboard, and he expected a lot of me. Soon after I left college, I became a commercial pilot." The president sat down slowly. It was clear from his body language that Malcolm was doomed to a few minutes of unwarranted exhortation.

"I worked in that field for almost twenty years, but after 9/11, things changed for me. Suddenly, we were being trained on how to handle a terrorist or hostage situation. All this time, I thought that it couldn't happen here in America, that we were safe. What that day taught me was that there will always be bad guys, the ones that are up to no good. But we've got to carry on like they don't exist because, after all, there's always hope that one day they won't. I support your research, Mr. Reed, and I've seen enough of your file to feel confident enough to offer you a job today."

An all-encompassing sensation of relief swept over the Brit in that moment, causing him to stand in excitement. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Archer! I promise you that you won't be disappointed!"

His new boss came along presently, shaking his hand once again. "It's my pleasure, Mr. Reed. Would you feel comfortable starting on Monday?"

"Absolutely!"

"Great," Jonathan ground out forcefully in an attempt to be casual. "There's one last matter we need to discuss, though."

"Anything," Malcolm studied him expectantly.

"Your resume says that you were previously employed by Harris Security Operations. From what I understand, that company went under due to some rather unsavory activities committed by its owner." It was clear that the older man was fishing for information. The trial and subsequent conviction of his former boss had been televised, but Malcolm knew that the particulars of his fraudulent business deals and underhanded methods of persuasion had not been revealed to the public.

"That's true, but I left before the investigation even begun," he countered, knowing that that was very much a falsehood, but just enough of the truth to get Jonathan off his trail.

"I'm glad," Mr. Archer pronounced, managing to appear both comforted and not entirely convinced at the same time. "If you'll just go with my secretary, she'll take your picture for your company ID card and guide you out. Thank you for your time."

Malcolm nodded, eager for his opportunity to escape.

"Oh, and Mr. Reed?" His strong tenor reached him just as he was about to shove his way out the door. He froze in fear on what he might say next. However, in spite of his undue concern, he only said, "Welcome aboard."

He emerged from the president's office triumphantly, only to find that a certain incorrigible engineer had returned to the atrium, this time carrying what appeared to be a flask of industrial lubrication fluid.

Tucker and Hoshi turned on him, the woman's face splitting in expectation. If they were even going to ask how it went, his facial expression was enough to give it away.

"I knew it," Trip asserted, "I even had time to run down to engineerin' and bring the Loo-tenant an office-warmin' present." He held up the bottle in his hands, enough for him to see that it was already half empty. Clearly, not a lot of thought had gone into this sudden gift.

"Here, catch!" The Southerner bellowed, catching Malcolm off guard. He held up his hands to catch the bottle in midair, but hadn't accounted for the weight of its contents.

A second later, it fell just out of reach of his fingers and shattered onto the hardwood floor, splattering the inky liquid on every surface within a five foot radius.

Hoshi let out an overtly dramatic squeal of anguish at the sight of her normally pristine floor so soiled. From the opposite side of the wall, Jonathan could be heard to shout, "What was that?"

Malcolm and Trip exchanged a fearful glance, each wondering what the proper course of action might be. Unfortunately, the engineer acted first, seizing the new hire by the wrist and hissing, "Run!"

Together, the two made tracks towards the exit.

**The End**


End file.
